Demon Marked (22 page)

“This isn't funny,” she said.

“I know it isn't.” Hell, yes, he knew. He knew how dangerous this thing between them could be, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. Just like he couldn't stop himself from climbing onto the table beside her and wrapping an arm around her narrow shoulders. “I just can't stand to see you so upset, especially for no reason,” Andre said, breathing a little easier when she leaned against him. “I really don't feel any different. I feel great, even better than I did before.”

She bit her lip and turned to look at him, surveying him through concerned eyes. “You don't feel dizzy? Or weak?”

“Not at all. Hell, I'm ready to go again.” He leaned in to kiss her neck, but she pushed him away.

Still, her tight mouth quirked at one edge and her fingertips lingered at his jaw for a moment before pulling away. “Don't be an idiot.”

“I'm not an idiot. I'm an addict,” Andre said, regretting the words the second they were out of his mouth. His smile faded, and it was harder to meet her eyes. But it was better they get this out of the way now, before his infatuation with this girl got any worse. “I mean ... I
really
am an addict. A sex addict. I've tried to go to meetings and—”

“I know.” Her voice was soft, compassionate, shocking him into silence. “I saw those memories, too. It's ... okay.”

“It is?”

“Well, no, it's not. I can tell it's not easy for you, but who am I to judge?” She swept his hair away from his forehead with a tenderness that made his throat tight. “I don't just use people—I steal their life away.”

“You didn't steal anything from me,” he said, grabbing her hand and kissing her fingertips, holding tight even when she tried to pull away. “I'm fine. I feel better than I have in years. You have to believe that.”

“It was different,” she said, searching his face. “Your skin was glowing, but not anything underneath. Usually I see a second face beneath the skin, and I can watch it ... waste away when I pull someone's energy inside myself. But I didn't see that with you, and I didn't get any new memories.” She paused for a moment, nibbling her lip. “The energy felt different. But I obviously fed. I feel charged the same way I usually do. Although with you, it felt more like ...”

“Like what?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. Andre, please—”

“Really, it sounds like we're good. I'm fine,” he said. “I mean, none of your other lovers dropped dead after sex, did they?”

Emma's eyes darted to the side, and a flush rose on her cheeks. “Um ...”

“That's not terribly assuring, Emma,” Andre said, his stomach clenching.

What if she'd realized that there was a chance she'd feed on him before they'd started this? He wouldn't blame her—she'd tried to warn him numerous times and told him to stop when she saw the light—but if she'd known this was possible ...

If she'd known, there was no way she could feel anything close to what he felt for her. He'd never do anything to put Emma in danger. He'd give everything to protect her. He was a selfish, shallow man who, before today, wouldn't have allowed a woman he'd fucked to spend the night, let alone risked his life to keep her safe. But here he was ... hanging on Emma's next words, holding his breath as her troubled eyes dropped to stare at the tops of her knees.

“Just tell me. Tell me the truth,” he said, scared by the need he could hear in his own voice. And it wasn't even fear for his life that made his chest ache and his pulse speed; it was fear that she'd confirm he was a fool.

God
, he should have known better. He should have—

“No, I've never hurt anyone during sex.” She hugged herself tighter and shivered beneath the hand he still rested on her back. “There hasn't been anyone else.”

It took several seconds for the meaning of her words to sink in. Then it all fell into place with a swiftness that made his head spin—the hesitance in her touch when she'd reached for him, the slight resistance as he'd pushed inside her, the shock and panic when she'd seen his face glowing and asked him to stop. She hadn't guessed that sex might activate her mark or her power or whatever she called it because she'd never
had
sex before.

He'd been her first.

The realization made him strangely aroused ... and terrified by the responsibility of his first virgin ... and aroused ... and flattered ... and aroused. ...

“I'm ... honored,” he said, meaning the words, even if they came out sounding like some cheesy line. He just couldn't think of what to say, how to let her know that what they'd done had been special to him, too, without sounding even cornier than he did already.

She blew a breath out through her lips. “Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal. I just figured it was time I do it and you're decent-looking and we were here alone and ...” She let her words trail off with a shrug before scooting away from him toward the edge of the table.

“I'm sure there was more to it than that,” he said, more uncomfortable than he'd been in a long time, but not regretting for a second the fact that he and Emma had been together. “There was definitely more to it for me, and—”

“Really, you don't have to stress about de-virgin-izing me or whatever.”

“Emma, I—”

“You should be more worried about whether you're going to die. I fed from you, even if I didn't mean to. I have never seen that blue light when it didn't mean I'd stolen life energy from someone. Not one single time.” She grabbed her bra from where it had landed on top of some lurid-looking orange flower and shrugged it on.

It was a little too big and didn't do her small curves justice, but he could imagine how drop-dead sexy she'd look in some expertly fitted lingerie. It made him want to stop everything and drive her up to the boutique on Eighty-third Street, where he bought his regular lovers the occasional gift, and outfit her with a giant shopping bag filled with lacy, silky, sexy things.

Then they'd head back to his apartment and lock themselves inside for the week, and she could wear her new lingerie during the few hours when they weren't naked, hot, and sweaty, rolling around in his bed making love. Or in the shower making love, or in the bathtub, or on top of the kitchen counter, or—

“Did you hear me?” she asked, frustrated ... and nearly dressed. Sometime during his imaginings, she'd pulled on her shirt and jeans and was halfway across the room gathering a stray boot.

“No, I was thinking about all the places I'd like to make love to you,” he said, ridiculously pleased by the flustered expression his words put on her face, and not at all embarrassed by the fact that he was still buck naked except for the Saint Christopher medal around his neck and the watch on his wrist.

But he'd never had trouble with nudity. According to his mother, she'd had a hell of a time keeping clothes on him when he was little. As soon as he'd learned how to pull off his shirt, pants, and diaper, he'd stripped down and gone running naked through the restaurant, making the entire family laugh. For some reason, he wanted to share that story with Emma, wanted her to know what his childhood had been like, wanted to know more about the little girl she'd been. Did she have any good memories mixed in with the horror she'd endured?

“So do you think we should?”

“Think we should what?” he asked, struggling to focus.

“You're impossible,” she sighed, pulling on her boot and stomping across the room to fetch the other. “You know, your dick is going to get you in trouble someday. Maybe today ...”

“Nah, me and the dick will be fine.” He watched her bend over to zip up her other boot, admiring the curves of her ass inside her snug-fitting jeans. She just kept getting prettier, sexier. It was impossible to believe he'd thought she needed makeup and highlights. She didn't need anything. If she were any more attractive, he'd have to beat other men off of her with a stick. “We'll figure out some way to keep the supernatural stuff under control next time.”

Emma stood fast, her hair whipping around her head in a cloud. “What next time? We can't ... We can't do that again.”

“Of course we can.” Andre eased off the table, not missing the interest in Emma's eyes when they darted to his cock. He wasn't hard again yet, but he was getting there. If only they had even another hour to waste ... He couldn't wait to show her that they'd only brushed the surface of the pleasure he could give her. “As soon as we get this Death Ministry situation sorted out and make sure you're safe, I insist on fucking you properly. In a bed, with some lube and maybe a few—”

“No.” She shook her head. “I won't hurt you again.” Her hand clutched at her stomach as if the very thought of hurting him made her ill.

No matter how much he hated to see her upset, her distress was vaguely thrilling. It meant she cared, maybe even the same way he cared. A relationship between them wouldn't be easy—with his addiction and her ... strange appetite—but at least they'd stand a chance. Maybe, if he got serious about therapy, and they talked to Sam about some way to help Emma with her mark, then maybe—

“I mean it, Andre,” she said, holding up a warning finger, as if she could read his big plans on his face.

Andre smiled and reached for her, letting his hands smooth down her bare arms. “Listen, we don't have to make that decision now. Just tell me you'll think about fucking me again ... assuming I don't shrivel up and die in the next few hours.”

She sighed. “You wouldn't shrivel. You'd have a heart attack.”

“Okay, so assuming I don't have one of those.”

“It doesn't always happen in a few hours. Sometimes it takes months, or even years.”

“But I feel fine,” he said, squeezing her hands, willing her to sense the life in him. “I feel great. I don't think you hurt me.”

“And maybe I didn't—it's never happened before, but maybe—but are you willing to bet your life on it?”

“Maybe.”

She shook her head, exasperated. “Well, I'm not, and Francis is going to have a heart attack if we don't get to the office,” she said. “I'm surprised he hasn't been calling your bud nonstop.”

Andre's smile faded. She was right. “I'm sure he has. I turned it off while you were in the bathroom.”

“You did?” She pulled her hands away from his. “But what if—”

“You're not the only one who needed a few minutes. I'm not nearly as tough as I look.”

Emma snorted. “I don't know who told you curls and flashy jewelry were tough, but—”

“I don't have curls. It just ... gets wavy when I perspire.”

“And you use the word
perspire
. That's really tough, too.”

“Okay, you win. I'm a big cream puff who turned off his phone so he could pull his girly-man shit together,” Andre said, the thought of the anxiety he and Emma would cause his family if they didn't show up soon making him scan the ground for his clothes. “But you're right. We should hurry.”

He gathered his pants, socks, shirt, and suit coat in a matter of seconds, but ended up one article of clothing short.

“Looking for these?” He turned to see a grinning Emma with his briefs dangling off one finger. “I can't believe you wear tighty whiteys.”

“What's wrong with briefs?”

“They look like adult diapers.”

“They offer support,” he said, snatching them from her with a smile. “And these aren't just briefs—they're very
expensive
briefs.”

“Even if they were made of solid gold, they would still be ...” Her words trailed off, her grin faded, and her eyes dropped to his arm, suddenly very interested in counting how many hairs were growing from his elbow to his wrist.

Surely, his underwear couldn't be
that
bad.

“You okay?” Andre hurried to pull on his pants. “Emma? Are you—”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” she said, but her smile was forced—a flash of teeth in her tight face. “I think I forgot something in the bathroom. Be right back.”

“All right, but I'm going to call Francis and tell him we're on our way,” Andre called after her as he pulled on his shirt. “So don't take long.”

“Two minutes,” she said, slamming the door shut behind her.

Andre dressed in record time, his gut telling him something had soured between him and Emma, though he had no idea what he'd done. He couldn't believe this was really about his choice of underwear—though the vain part of him did wish he'd grabbed a pair of boxer briefs instead.

Maybe she was just feeling awkward. Pillow talk was never easy, especially when there hadn't even been a pillow involved and it was your first time.

God, he still remembered his first time—fifteen years old in the basement of his parents' restaurant. He and one of the much older waitresses had gone at it on some cardboard boxes they'd laid down in the corner. It had been over in thirty seconds. Afterward, he'd barely been able to look her in the face while he'd hitched up his pants.

It wasn't that he'd been embarrassed about his lack of staying power—he'd heard enough from his older, male cousins to know the first few times were a bust for most guys—it was more the shock of the whole thing. It had been so different from what he'd imagined—better and worse all at the same time. Overwhelming, really. He'd run home and holed up in his room all weekend playing video games he hadn't touched since he was twelve. The familiar characters and endless bleeping noises had made him feel safe.